Drunken Monologues
by realfriends13
Summary: Things fall apart after the king of the greasers' death. Those close to him try to carry on.
1. no 1 party anthem

_Heavy breathing._

"How often do you have these… dreams? Is there anything special you do before bed on the nights you have them?"

 _Sirens. Footsteps rushing towards him._

Dr. Bambillo shuffled his notes. Cleared his throat. Readjusted his watch. Anything to fill in these empty spaces. He hated empty spaces. The came so damn often with this kid.

 _Rustles against the floorboards as he dragged himself towards the exit. The heat still lapping at his left foot. Was it his foot? His leg. It was his leg. He couldn't feel his foot anymore._

Dr. Bambillo started calculating how many more years until he could retire. Maybe he'd just do it early.

 _Arms hooking themselves under his armpits, pulling him up and out._

" _He's still in there! He's still in there! JOHNNY!"_

"Well, it looks like our time's up," Dr. Bambillo said finally, letting out an internal sigh of relief. Lawrence hadn't said a word the entire session. What was the point of sending the brat to therapy if he wasn't going to talk?

Peanut looked up. His eyes had been fixated on a spot of mustard on Dr. Bambillo's shirt the whole time. He'd been spacing out, and he knew it. The dreams weren't just limited to his time asleep nowadays.

"I'm prescribing you Prozac. Side effects may be nausea, drowsiness, insomnia… but if you say you're having nightmares, I can't imagine how that'd be an issue."

He tossed the prescription note into Peanut's lap as if it were a dead bug before stepping away to the desk in the room, probably writing out the big fat bill he'd be sending to the school. "Don't worry about payment. I'll send this to the academy myself."

Kid would probably lose it, anyway.

The doctor strode over to the door and pulled it open, staring at him. Peanut took it as his cue to leave.

He wheeled past the doctor wordlessly, just as he'd been the whole session. He rolled past the secretary at the front, past the other patients waiting to have prescriptions chucked at them. Not one of them stood to open the door for him. He didn't care. He pushed it open with one hand and, struggling, wheeled himself out with the other.

Norton waited outside in his car. It wasn't anything special-a decommissioned police car his father had convinced the chief to sell to him rather than send to the dump, repainted to look like a normal car. But it still had the sirens on top. They didn't work, of course, but they were there.

Peanut smirked at the irony.

Norton stepped out of the car and helped Peanut into the passenger seat, and then placed the wheelchair in the trunk. He got back in and started on the way back to New Coventry. He was the only one of the gang with a car, so driving Peanut around for therapy and physical therapy had fallen to him. He didn't mind. It was part of his leader responsibilities.

"How'd it go?" Norton asked after a few miles. He knew better than to pry immediately.

"I didn't say anything. He gave me Prozac."

"Are you going to take them?"

"No."

"Okay."

And that was the end of that conversation, and they were quiet for the rest of the ride.

Since the Tenements were gone, the boys had been shacking up at the pool hall instead. They'd gotten it back from Hopkins. He would've been a real asshole if he'd kept it after what happened.

They drove past what was left of the building on the way.

"Don't look."

Peanut looked.

" _C'mon Johnny, you're drunk. You need some rest, man. Just put the cigarette out and go to sleep."_

" _You're not my dad, kid. I'll do as I damn please."_

Shuddering, he turned away as best as he could.

There was no parking spot at the pool hall, so Norton pulled in on the grass and within seconds the boys were rushing out to help Peanut out. He'd protested the first few times-no, that was a lie. He hadn't said anything the first few times. He'd protested after that. Now he'd resorted back to not saying anything.

After a bit of a production, they'd finally managed to all be seated in the pool hall, beers handed out.

"I saw Lola out with Gord today, fucking slut," Hal muttered after a few beats of silence, setting the tone for the conversation. They'd be bashing Lola.

Again.

"She didn't deserve Johnny," Lefty shot back, taking a sip of his beer. "Bitch can't even wait til grass grows over the grave?"

Peanut sat in silence, staring at the static on the television Lucky was trying to get working. Lola wasn't welcome with them anymore.

Bored, he began wheeling himself towards the makeshift bedroom they'd placed for him in the closet.

"Going to bed so soon, Larry?" Lucky called after him, looking up.

"I'm tired," Peanut lied, rolling in and shutting the door behind him.

Nightmares were better than talking about him or Lola any longer.


	2. tear you apart

_A real big spender..._

 _Good lookin', so refined._

 _Say, wouldn't you like to know what's goin' on in my mind?_

 _So let me get right to the point..._

 _I don't pop my cork for every man I see._

 _Hey big spender!_

 _Spend... a little time with me._

The sounds of the 60s played gently through the speakers of Lola's boombox, nestled snugly on her desk, between the useless history textbook she'd been loaned by the school at the beginning of the semester and her cheetah-print clutch, one her mother had gotten sick of but Lola had always been fond of.

She traced her rouge over the points of her cupid's bow, mashing her lips together to blend it out evenly. They weren't supposed to wear this shade of red at the academy.

They weren't supposed to do a lot of the things Lola did.

"Turn that shit down, Slutrella," a catty voice drifted over her music, though Lola didn't bother casting a look Mandy's way as she darkened the eyeliner wing on her left eye. It wasn't a favored look among her peers, but Lola knew she was far too sophisticated for that trashy lip gloss and fake tan these girls bought. She was a woman-and she knew she needed to behave as one. Not a schoolgirl.

Finished sharpening her make-up, she finally looked Mandy's way, a solid minute after the cheerleader had spoken. A simple once over, and Lola let out her signature scoff, one she'd casted so often since she'd broken out of her shell her first few years at Bullworth.

"Did you finish puking Ted's come into the toilet so you won't gain an ounce, darling? Or could Prince Charming not get it up for you, again?" She said sweetly, showing off her freshly whitened teeth. She didn't save up for those damn strips to _not_ show off, of course.

Mandy rolled her eyes, unaffected by Lola's crassness. "Bite me, whore. At least I'd have the decency to not immediately start busting it open for every guy that walks by me days after my boyfriend died. I mean, jesus, wait for the body to cool, bitch."

She strut away from that, fortunately. She didn't stick around long enough to see Lola wince. She looked back at herself in the mirror, suddenly ashamed. The bimbo pom-pom waver was right. She shouldn't be mixing lipstick colors and sharpening her eyeliner wing. She should be focusing on Johnny, _her_ Johnny, her darling boy she never thought she'd lose. Not like that. Not so soon. The mere weight of the situation hung on her heart and pulled her down into an abyss of grief.

The truth was, she was a wreck. What Lola was there without Johnny Vincent? It was like a bottle of pop with no gas. A beach with no ocean. A seed with no soil.

They hadn't just buried his body in that grave. They'd buried her entire world. Her very existence for the past seventeen years. Every smile and every grievance, every story she'd ever told and every laugh she'd ever had. They buried her own idea of herself-and now she was nothing, just a shell, a projection of what had once been. An after-image burned into your vision as you stare at a white screen, slowly fading away. She would've traded places with Johnny in a second. He deserved life so much more than she did.

But that wasn't the image she could produce-it wasn't the part she could play. She didn't go to the funeral-she couldn't. That would've been too final. Too real. The longer she could avoid the fact that he was gone and he wasn't coming back this time, the better.

Of course, the role of grieving girlfriend wasn't one the public had deemed her worthy of being cast in, either. The talk began almost the second the church doors shut without her presence past them.

 _Whore._

 _Slut._

 _She never cared about him._

 _I bet she's already found another guy to leech off of._

Lola shook herself to get out of the thought. Such self-pities would get her nowhere, and it was already almost time for afternoon class, anyway.

She removed her bookbag from the seat's backrest and began her route to class, well aware of the stares thrown her way but determined to not acknowledge them. If she tried, she could imagine they were stares of awe rather than of disdain. Though it was hard to accomplish such a feat when she'd been faced with having to spend the lunch hour in her dorm rather than face the talk in the cafeteria-especially considering she had to sit alone, these days.

Her walk of fame always started at the top of the stairs. Today was no different.

"You're a fucking bitch!"

"The pleasure's all mine, gorgeous," Lola smiled back, winking at Karen. So she'd joined in on the cursing lessons the older girls, Mags and Lily, had been providing the junior class with. She shook her head, knowing this would only mean more colorful greetings from the younger girls.

The rest of the walk continued in similar fashion. Comments from every girl she passed by, and some of the weaker men, as well. Lola shrugged off each with poise, offering million dollar smiles and winks and even blowing kisses in their direction. She strut into English class feeling like a champ, ignoring the pitiful look Galloway glanced at her with.

Settling into her desk, she retrieved her notebook and pen, glancing down at her cherry red manicure to ensure it hadn't chipped between now and five minutes ago, when she'd used the same tactic to ignore Christy Martin.

" _So_ trashy. I bet it's easy for her to slut it up now that he's dead. She probably lit the fire herself."

Lola winced at that. She fought the urge to turn around and instead pulled out her blush, opening it and using the mirror to see who was behind her, pretending to be checking her make-up.

Gauthier and Hawthorn. _They_ were bitches.

Regardless, she couldn't help but feel Emily was right. She might as well have started the fire.


End file.
